


behind every door is a fall

by blindmadness



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Canon Compliant, M/M, Missing Scene, not explicitly called such but that's basically what's going on here, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 09:25:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2846054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindmadness/pseuds/blindmadness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It could mean any number of things, but the most likely is that he didn’t have anywhere else to go. That he has no one in his life that he trusts to give him what he needs right now other than Oliver."</p><p>What happened between Connor coming to Oliver's apartment and Connor getting out of Oliver's shower.</p>
            </blockquote>





	behind every door is a fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [samyazaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samyazaz/gifts).



> So I saw "choice" and "hurt/comfort" and "Oliver teaching [Connor] how to make emotional connections like a real boy," and my mind immediately leapt to the future scene in 1x04 of Connor coming to Oliver's door (this was pre-midseason finale). It's clearly a scene that captured the attention of most of the fandom, and I'm no exception. Connor is definitely my problematic fave and I was fascinated by his breakdown and subsequent actions—and even more so by how Oliver would receive them. I, too, love the idea of Oliver standing up to Connor to be treated as an equal, but how does that fit in with Oliver's basic decency and desire to be a good person in the face of Connor's pain? I couldn't resist giving this a shot.
> 
> The midseason finale aired when I was about halfway into this, and fortunately all it did was provide me with a way to tie things up at the end. Think of this as a missing scene in between them, and enjoy your Yuletide. <3
> 
> Title, of course, from "No One's Here To Sleep."

After he gets Connor inside, Oliver puts the kettle on for tea. He’s pretty sure Connor doesn’t drink tea, can’t even reconcile something that he associates so strongly with warmth and comfort and peace with someone like Connor. But he’s never seen someone more in need of a hot beverage to ease their nerves, and he’s sure as hell not giving him _coffee_ right now, so tea it is.

He’s eased Connor into a chair at his kitchen table, even though he’s shaking so hard it looks like he might fall off of it at any minute, because there’s no way he’s letting Connor out of his sight for even a minute when he’s in this state. Like this, he’s still a few feet away—pouring the kettle over the tea bag when it whistles, leaving the sound of Connor’s shaky hyperventilating to fill the air—but close enough to catch him should he actually fall over.

Oliver’s still not entirely sure that he should be doing said catching. If he’s being totally honest with himself, he _knows_ he shouldn’t be doing it; he doesn’t need the giant warning label that is Connor Walsh disrupting his life all over again. But he knows the kind of person he is—earnest and decent and overall pretty good at giving second chances, when deserved—and he knows that under the circumstances, there’s a chance that Connor deserves it.

He’s not a lawyer, but he can put the evidence together. Something happened to Connor, something really bad, something so bad that it’s shaken his basic sense of self deeply enough to leave him defenseless. And whatever it was eroded his judgment to the point where his instinct was to come to the man who kicked him out of his apartment and out of his life weeks ago. It could mean any number of things, but the most likely is that he didn’t have anywhere else to go. That he has no one in his life that he trusts to give him what he needs right now other than Oliver.

Whatever Connor’s done, Oliver can’t bring himself to betray that trust.

Three minutes for the tea to steep. Oliver takes the bag out, stirs a little honey into the mug, and sets it down on the coffee table in the living room. He wraps a careful arm around Connor’s shoulders, guiding him off of the chair and towards the couch. He starts to hand the tea to him, then stops when he sees that Connor’s hands are shaking too badly to hold it.

Oliver lets his breath out in a single long exhale. He feels like he’s tiptoeing around a minefield as he reaches for Connor’s hands, clasps them together and holds on as firmly as he can, trying to convey steadiness and calm. He absorbs every tremor as he stares at Connor’s anxious face, swallowing back every automatic platitude that springs to mind _(hey, don’t worry, it’s going to be okay, I’m here, you’ll get through this)_. It’s all too cliché for a moment so real, steeped in terror beyond anything Oliver could have imagined touching Connor Walsh’s charmed life.

Eventually, Connor’s tremors slow, and Oliver wraps his hands firmly around the mug of tea. Connor raises it to his mouth automatically and Oliver exclaims, “Whoa,” reaching to lightly tug his wrist down. “Don’t—I just made that, it’s too hot to drink so quickly. Be careful.”

Connor slowly swings his gaze to Oliver’s face, and Oliver forces himself not to shudder at how dead his eyes look, how blank his expression is. Then, without blinking, he lifts the mug and takes a long drink, only flinching briefly to betray how scalding it still must be.

“Jesus, Connor,” Oliver says, incredulous. He’s not sure if he should take the tea away from him or not; he’s hunched over it now, almost protectively, still shaking but looking much calmer. Oliver’s not sure if this counts as self-harm. Probably.

It’s more unnerving than he could have imagined, seeing Connor like this. He wears his confidence, his cocky entitlement, like a second skin, like it’s an actual physical part of him rather than a mere personality trait. Even when Oliver was kicking him out, rather than looking pleading or humbled, he had still been Connor. Oliver remembers wondering, frustrated and hurt, if anything could get beneath the mask, if there was even a mask to get beneath.

Well, now he knows, and it’s worse than his imagination could have ever provided. He’d be lying if he said a small part of him hadn’t wanted to see it, hadn’t wanted Connor to know what it felt like to be off-balance or shaken or actually, openly emotional. Now that he’s seen it, though, Oliver doesn’t like it at all. He seems wrong, broken. He wants Connor back. He never wants to see Connor again, but he wants him back anyway.

The warmth of the tea (or possibly the pain in his throat; Oliver’s still not over his shock about that) seems to have slowed Connor’s shaking to a point where it’s barely visible. Oliver’s sitting near enough, though, that he can still feel the slight vibration of Connor’s body. His breathing is more even, and his eyes look a little more focused. He already seems more human than he did even twenty minutes ago, but he still looks as if he might never recover from whatever happened to him.

Oliver’s suddenly too curious to hold it in any longer, too bewildered by everything that’s gone on tonight. “Connor,” he says quietly, bracing his hands against the side of the chair, “what happened?”

Connor actually, physically recoils, as if Oliver had hit him rather than asked a question, and he backs down immediately. “Hey—it’s okay. You’re fine. Drink your tea.”

To his surprise, Connor actually listens, clutching the mug more firmly and taking another long sip. Oliver watches him as he keeps drinking, and by the time he finishes the tea, his concern has worn down from its previous all-encompassing state.

“Connor,” Oliver says again, and this time when Connor raises his broken gaze to Oliver’s, he holds it without flinching back or pulling away. “You have to tell me what’s going on. I want to help, but I need to know what happened to you.”

Connor, at least, isn’t flinching either, not anymore, although his shoulders slump in what looks to be a truly profound exhaustion, mental as much as physical. After a moment, instead of responding to anything Oliver’s said, he asks, his voice hoarse but level, “Can I use your shower?”

For a moment, Oliver’s speechless. _Can I use your shower?_ After all of this, that’s what he gets? That’s it?

It would be typical Connor, to act in a way that’s not necessarily overtly thoughtless so much as self-serving above all, were it not for the blankness of his expression and the droop of his whole posture. He’s managing to tense and sag at the same time, and to Oliver, it couldn’t be clearer that Connor’s begging him not to ask any questions if he were to shout it in his face.

 _Then you shouldn’t have come to me,_ Oliver thinks, surprised by how resentful he feels. He knew he wasn’t over Connor, not entirely, but he didn’t realize he was still harboring so much hurt. Really, though—did Connor think it would be closer to what it was before, where Connor asked and Oliver gave and he knew to never, ever ask too many questions?

No. It’s not going to be like that again. Oliver deserves better. He deserves not to clean up after Connor’s messes without so much as an attempt at an explanation.

He has a choice now, he knows, just like he had a choice when he answered the door and saw Connor there. He could have turned him away—hell, he could _still_ turn him away—let him go find someone else to help him, or let him deal with his problems on his own for once. No one would have blamed him for that. It would have been easy to forgo the problems that Connor brought with him, to let him walk out of Oliver’s life for good.

It would be easy, now, to let it go—to let Connor use his shower, to let him walk away without an explanation (because in all likelihood, nothing’s actually changed, and Oliver still doesn’t want Connor back in his life, not if it’s going to be the same story all over again). It would be Oliver just doing the right thing—not pushing, not taking more than he’s offered. It would be the most simple option.

But Oliver doesn’t want simple, and he doesn’t want easy. Not tonight. He deserves more than that.

“Yes,” he says, and watches Connor slump further into the chair, this time with clear relief. “But only if you tell me what’s going on after you use it.”

Something in Connor’s gaze shutters, but Oliver holds his ground. If Connor didn’t want to deal with this, he should have gone to someone else.

“Okay,” Connor says, very softly.

Oliver’s not going to let him get off that easy, though. “Promise me,” he says, firmly, and Connor lets out a shaky breath, but he says, a little louder, “I promise.”

Oliver nods, letting out a quiet breath of his own, and gets to his feet. That’s that, then. He’s made his decision. “I’ll get you a towel.”

He really, really hopes he doesn’t regret it.


End file.
